Lost
by bytheseaside
Summary: Some days are harder than others, and sometimes you just want to lose yourself. Jack, Tenth Doctor. Angst.


**Spoilers – **Anything and everything up to and including rumours, spoilers and speculation on the end of season two, season three and _Torchwood_. You have been warned. That said, there's nothing particularly overt after _The Parting of the Ways_.  
**Summary – **Some days are harder than others, and sometimes you just want to lose yourself. Jack Harkness, the Doctor (10th). Angst. Slash. Torchwood.  
**Disclaimer – **I own nothing.  
**Notes – **Dark, dark.

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Some days Jack feels it more keenly than others. Loss, loneliness. Today has been one of the lowest his days since the one that saw the TARDIS disappearing from his life for good. 

Sure, bad guys defeated, world saved, another pat on the back for Jack Harkness. But although his bosses are pleased, and there's already been mention of commendations, of ceremonies and accolades, Jack can still see the corpses of those who weren't among the lucky. A dozen mutilated bodies the youngest six months, the eldest ninety-two years, a family party, a birthday celebration. And one wide-eyed, blank face of the surviving member. A boy, eight years old, who watched his family, his parents, grandparents, and more slaughtered in front of him. He screamed when Jack tried to get close, screamed at the medical personal associated with Torchwood, screamed until someone kindly pressed a needle to his skin and unconsciousness took him.

The screams are still ringing in Jack's ears as he closes his hotel room door on the sympathetic face of a colleague, one who understood that heroism comes at a price that most wouldn't understand. But Jack doesn't want a shoulder to cry on – he's never wanted that – he doesn't even want to see someone whose eyes he'll have to meet tomorrow. Mostly, he thinks he wants to be alone, but in the silence of his room, and the noise of his head, he realises that alone isn't going help.

His hotel isn't in the centre of London, not even close, but the surrounding area still possesses enough nightlife to get lost in, and Jack desperately wants to be lost. Eventually, he finds himself a club, and though he instinctively knows how close he is, he doesn't let himself think about the person who used to live nearby. He's been down that path, and there were blades knifing through him, when he realised she wasn't there anymore, that she was as gone from this place as ever. It's just another reason to hate this mission.

Beer is reasonably priced, but it'll take an age for a man used to drinking hypervodka to get drunk on that, so he starts with something hard – as hard as this century has to offer. The bartender looks like he'd like to refuse this man with the dangerous face, doesn't want to have to deal with yet another angry drunk, but money is money and he has no cause not serve him. The first burn down Jack's throat doesn't even come close to being enough, but the fourth makes a decent attempt and the sixth slides down pleasantly, easing the ache in his chest; the seventh dulls the screaming and on the eighth, he notices the attractive man to his left with the dark, dark eyes and the lost expression.

Alcohol has dulled the pain, and brought out some of the old Jack Harkness and he makes a play. Some of the darkness lifts from his companion's eyes, as he chuckles, "Buy me a drink first." The words spark some distant, liquor suppressed memory, but Jack ignores it in favour of his newest mark, something bright in his horrible day. Drinks are bought and Jack admires the other man's profile, long and lean, attractive face, nice hands, oddly dressed in a pin-striped suit and sneakers, but clothing has never bothered him much, not when what was beneath the wrapping had the potential that this one did.

Despite the stipulations, it's three drinks later that they find themselves back at Jack's hotel room. He makes a token effort at being a host – offering another drink, but his new friend refuses. Throwing his coat and jacket over the back of the couch, the stranger, still nameless, stalks forward gracefully – not clearly drunk – and Jack is pleased with his choice of partners; this one he's sure he will enjoy, this one will make him forget.

He's drunk enough that he doesn't hear the voice in the back of his mind that tells him that this one will make him remember. Or maybe he just doesn't want to hear it: fast fingers are removing his coat, and unbuttoning his shirt, and he'd rather focus on that.

The cool lips pressing against his should have been his first clue, but the curling tongue distracts him, and he loses himself in the kiss, desperate for this contact. His name called in a ragged voice, when he's never given it, should have been his next clue, but there is a body pressed against his, in his, and he's longed for this closeness for too long. However, he can't ignore the strange double beat of two hearts against his single one. But he looks up into eyes that are brown, in an unfamiliar face, with an unfamiliar voice, and is confused. Only the pain is familiar, grief unspoken and soul deep; it brings the name to Jack's lips, but that slides away unspoken as something whispers to him and he feels heavy and weak, sliding into deep sleep.

When Jack wakes, there is only the faint traces of an unknown scent on the sheets of his bed, a faint ache deep in his body, and the distant memory of something painful that slipped through his fingers.

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Please review._


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